


The Boy

by the_sock_index



Series: Sock's Rant Meme Fills [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sock_index/pseuds/the_sock_index
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "16yr old sexually frustrated Mycroft desperately wanking in bed thinking about a boy at school."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts on the [sherlock_rant](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com) meme [here](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/7635.html?thread=60193235).

He's not especially intelligent--perhaps moreso than most of the other boys, but certainly not as intelligent as Mycroft himself. He's not even as intelligent as Sherlock, which is saying something given that Sherlock is only thirteen.

Mycroft enters his room and locks the door behind him, grateful that--as one of the senior boys at school--he's been granted his own room with a lock. He makes his way to the nightstand next to the bed, opens the drawer, and removes a worn flannel and a small tube of lubrication. These he sets on the otherwise uncluttered nightstand.

Nor is the boy especially good-looking, he muses to himself as he starts undressing. Mycroft has long understood that what he find especially visually pleasing does not always agree with what 'normal people' find attractive, but even taking that into account, he suspects that the boy would be objectively considered, at best, marginally good-looking.

Finally naked--with his uniform placed conscientiously in his laundry bag for the visit home he's to make on the weekend--he pulls back the duvet of his carefully made bed before climbing between the clean sheets and covering himself back up.

He reaches over to grab the flannel which he places over his already half-hard cock and then he picks up the tube of lube and squirts a small amount in the palm of his hand--not much, but more than enough to get the job done.

The boy _is_ good at sport, Mycroft admits to himself, wrapping his hand carefully around his prick. He's spent more time than he'd like to admit finding reasons to walk near the football pitch in the afternoons so as to be in the right place to watch football or rugby practice.

The shorts that the boys on the team wear aren't overly revealing but, for some reason, they seem to fit the boy especially well. They look smooth and snug over the generous curve of his arse and there's something about them that highlights the solid musculature of the boy's thighs.

Mycroft bites his lip and slowly slides his hand once up and then once down his prick, picturing the boy running gracefully, muscles taut. It's a fairly clear and accurate picture as it's a sight often seen of an afternoon.

But while Mycroft can't deny that he likes the way the boy looks when he's running and playing rugby or football, that's still not _it_ , precisely. Not the complete reason why such a seemingly ordinary boy should be so compelling.

There's something about the boy's eyes, even though they're not--objectively speaking--beautiful. Still, Mycroft can't help finding them endlessly fascinating, like the way he can never tell if they're brown or just a very dark blue, and how they darken and lighten based on the boy's mood--Mycroft tightens his grip, strokes himself again and shivers at how good it feels.

And there's the boy's smile which, objectively, is simply the movement of facial muscles, but it makes the boy's emotions crystal clear: happy, sad, frustrated, angry, mischievous.

Well, he's never seen that last expression _precisely_ , but he's imagined it quite often.

He does so now, a teasing smirk on the boy's face, his short, compact body on display for Mycroft's enjoyment--he pants quietly, quickens the pace on his cock a bit, closes his eyes to better visualise--his light hair mussed and his cheeks pink from exertion.

Mycroft strokes himself quicker, recalls the breathy giggle he's heard from the boy on occasion while walking past the pitch and adds it to the mental image.

Almost perfect, but not quite enough.

And then he pretends that the boy's soft, strong hands--talented hands, the perfect hands for a surgeon, which is what the boy aspires to be--are wrapped around him, stroking him firmly. He imagines the boy's hot breath against his neck and in his ear--Mycroft shivers, almost groans but he holds back, mindful in one corner of his mind of the thin walls--saying his name, encouraging him to lose control, to come because he wants to see it, wants to _feel_ it.

He imagines the boy's strong, muscled thighs stradding him, can see clearly the flex of his forearms as the boy works over his cock--

He gasps and comes, biting hard on his lip to keep himself from vocalising his pleasure. And then the moment is over and he relaxes back against his pillow to catch his breath and relish the lassitude that steals over him. After a few moments, he reaches down for the flannel that has caught most of the mess and fastidiously wipes up the rest of it before depositing the soiled flannel on the nightstand. He'll wash it out when he gets up to perform his evening ablutions, but he's content to relax for the moment.

His mind floats back to the boy and he frowns once again. He still hasn't solved the puzzle of John Watson's attractiveness, but he plans to bend his considerable intellect to the task. He imagines he'll solve it eventually.


End file.
